Something about his overt negativity, his impatience, the way his dark eyes claimed her face and her body in that merciless way only artists possessed, gave her the feeling of emerging from underwater.
She wanted to tell him she’d come to the city for artistic ambition too. She wished, in that moment, that it was still the reason she was in the city.
Outside, the sun was hidden behind fresh clouds.
“So what are you going to do for an hour before we are allowed back in?” he said. His black eyes were an invitation. Her heart leaped.
Looking down, the dozens and dozens of steps between her and the street seemed an impossible hurdle. She was rooted in place. There was nowhere to go because she didn’t want to exist beyond that very moment. She didn’t want to lose the feeling of the world suddenly expanding. “I have no idea,” she said.
“I do. I’m going to make love to you,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Was he for real? Who talked like that?
“I need inspiration.” He glanced behind them. “And I’m not going to find what I’m looking for in there.”
“I don’t even know your name,” she said, stalling.
“My name is Nick.”
Chapter Fifteen
Amelia was a creature of routine: Every summer morning she served breakfast to her guests from seven to nine. Then she biked to Herring Cove Beach to take a long walk and scour the sand for shells and sea glass and other small treasures.
Now it was after nine and the table was still empty except for a brazen seagull that perched on the end of the bench. Amelia set out the hand-painted cake tray with her signature egg tarts, then returned to the kitchen to make fresh coffee. Looking out at the table through the window, she wondered if the entire breakfast would go to waste.
Were they all late sleepers? Just when she was about to give up and head to the beach, she spotted the glossy dark ponytail of one of the girls.
It was Marin. The quiet one. The one who looked so much like Nick.
She must have gone out the front entrance and walked the long way around to the yard.
Amelia would talk to her. It was strange to have these young women in her home, knowing they were her granddaughters. She knew it, she could see it, but she could not yet feel it. What she felt the most was the sting of no response from her daughter to the letter. Kelly had been right; she shouldn’t have opened herself up to hope. But she would open herself up to these girls. Her expectations were not unrealistic. Truthfully, she had none. They could not change the past, but they were an undeniable link to it.
Nick, a sperm donor. Of all things! She’d have given him the money for school. It had been tight then, with the inn just getting off the ground, but she could have figured it out. Otto would have helped. In the first few years after their divorce, he’d written her off, but certainly not the kids. But then, it was a good thing Nick hadn’t come to them for money. If he had, then he would be really and truly gone now. Instead, she had this beautiful young woman sitting in her backyard.
Marin sat on the edge of the bench near the farthest end of the table, staring out at the water. Sunglasses covered half her face and she was dressed in white jean shorts and a black tank top.
Amelia took a deep breath and pushed through the swinging screen door to the rear of the house, carrying the chipped yellow porcelain coffeepot her own mother had used. Marin didn’t turn away from the water until Amelia set the coffee on the table, next to the orange juice, broa (Portuguese corn bread), and a bowl of fresh berries.
“Good morning, dear.” She poured coffee into one of the cups, a lovely pale blue patterned china she’d found at an estate sale with Kelly a few summers back. “Do you take milk in your coffee?”
Marin looked at her almost blankly. “What? No, thanks. Black is fine.”
The pain in the young woman’s eyes was unmistakable. Amelia understood—it all must be quite a shock. Rachel had explained that she’d always known about the sperm donor but told her in the last phone conversation before her arrival that Marin hadn’t had any idea.
“I know this has to be a big adjustment,” Amelia said.
Marin turned back to the water. When it became clear that she was not going to respond, Amelia felt uncharacteristically compelled to fill the silence.
“If it’s any consolation, I simply could not be more thrilled to meet you girls. And your mother seems lovely. Maybe later this afternoon I can show you around the island?”
The back screen door slapped shut with its familiar thwap. Amelia turned to find Rachel bounding toward them.
“Good morning!” Rachel said.
“Did you sleep well, dear?” said Amelia.
“Totally! Like, better than I have in so long. Wow, this all looks so amazing. Thanks.” She reached for the coffee.
“I was just telling Marin that I’d love to show you around the island later today.”
“Yes! I want to see everything. I feel like a week is barely going to be enough time.”
Amelia laughed. “It’s a small island, but in some ways you’re right. I’ve been here most of my life, and I’m still discovering things.”
“I love that! How many generations of your family have lived here?”
“Your great-great-grandmother settled here when it was just a remote fishing village. No one could have imagined it would become—”
“Excuse me,” Marin said, standing abruptly. She headed for the house, taking her coffee with her.
Amelia and Rachel shared a glance of mutual concern, and the unexpected, easy intimacy was startling.
While she felt bad that Marin was unhappy, she couldn’t help but feel a swell of happiness that she was connecting with at least one of her granddaughters.
“She’s a stress case,” Rachel said, reaching for a piece of corn bread. “This looks awesome.”
“I feel bad that she’s having a hard time with this. That it’s a source of pain and not joy.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“She pushed me away at first too. And now she’s here. So I’m not worried about it.”
Amelia smiled. What a bright and optimistic soul.
“You know what I really want to do? Like, ASAP, if it’s not too much trouble? I want to see photos of my father.”
Amelia felt her smile falter. When was the last time she’d been able to look at a photo of Nick? Aside from the anniversary of his death every year, she kept the memories of what had been lost tucked away—literally and figuratively. The photo albums from her life in Boston, the years of raising Nick and Nadine, were boxed up in the attic, along with their baby books and the baby clothes she’d saved in case she was ever blessed with a grandchild.
She bit her lip. Here was the grandchild, all grown up.
“Oh, dear. Of course I have photos. I just need some time to get them down from storage.”
“I’m so excited. I’ve been dreaming about this forever.”
She put her hand on Amelia’s and squeezed.